


Miss Austen and Dr. Smith

by hannasus



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Doctor Who (2005), Historical RPF
Genre: 18th Century, 19th Century, Action/Adventure, Bittersweet, Drama, Female Friendship, Female Protagonist, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Historical Figure - Freeform, Literary Reference, Mystery, Regency, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannasus/pseuds/hannasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten bumps into Jane Austen in 1799. There's some dancing and some aliens and the inevitable hijinks, etc., etc., etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [La signorina Austen e il Dottor Smith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3134891) by [MissEDashwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEDashwood/pseuds/MissEDashwood)



** _Hurstbourne Tarrant, England  
1799_ **

It was a fine night. Better than fine, actually. It was a splendid night. The weather was precisely the right sort of brisk and the air just the right sort crisp, without too much in the way of damp or fog.

It was exactly the sort of night made for enjoying a nice drink round the fire with your mates, thought Cyrus Foote. If only he had a nice drink. Or a fire. Or any mates, for that matter.

He shivered and stared glumly round the stables where he lived and worked. Mr. Blount’s prized Thoroughbred gazed back at him haughtily.

It was a good bit warmer up in the sleeping quarters above the stables, but it was also a great deal noisier. The senior stableman snored like a consumptive ox, and the other groom who shared their living space had recently developed a tendency to talk in his sleep. Well, not talk, exactly. It sounded rather more like —

Let’s just say it was off-putting and leave it at that.

At least down here with the horses a man could find a bit of peace and quiet, Cyrus thought as he fetched his pipe and a pouch of tobacco from his pocket.

It was at this precise moment that a loud percussion not unlike cannon-fire sounded overhead, badly startling Mr. Blount’s prized Thoroughbred and causing Cyrus to spill tobacco down the front of his shirt.

He threw open the door of the stable and watched in open-mouthed wonder as an enourmous streak of fire cut across the sky and struck the ground somewhere in the vicinity of Hurstbourne Hill.

“Bloody hell,” he said, to no one in particular, and set off at a run.

  
Precisely 4 hours, 8 minutes and 15 seconds later, and not half a league away, the stillness of the night was once more disturbed by an unusual sound, though this one was nothing at all like cannon-fire. By then there was no longer anyone awake to hear it — other than a family of very alarmed rabbits — and likewise no one to see when an odd blue box materialized among a stand of trees just north of Hurstbourne Hill.

“My apologies,” said the man who emerged from the box to the perturbed rabbits. “Do carry on.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

At the age of three-and-twenty, Jane Austen was not a young woman anyone would have supposed destined for a remarkable life. This was not due to any particular failing on her part, it was simply that the life of a clergyman’s daughter in a small country village provided little in the way of excitement or adventure. From an early age Jane had been possessed of a sharp mind and an even sharper wit, and had quietly sought to exercise these traits through writing: poems, stories, plays, letters — she had even completed three novels by the time our story begins. But her aspirations remained humble, and there were only a few privileged intimates with whom she shared her literary pursuits.

It so happened, however, that in the winter of 1799 Jane paid a visit to her good friend Martha Lloyd and Martha’s widowed mother, who resided some fifteen miles away in the small hamlet of Ibthorpe, near to Hurstbourne Tarrant. It was not uncommon for Jane to visit the Lloyds, who were favorite friends of the Austen family — particularly as Martha’s elder sister Mary had lately married Jane’s brother James — what was uncommon were the events that transpired on this particular visit.

The journey itself, from Steventon to Upper Hurstbourne, went off quite uneventfully, and soon enough Jane found herself comfortably installed at Ibthorpe House, enjoying the amiable and affectionate company of friends. Once tea had been served and they had all caught up with the pertinent family news, conversation shifted to the strange phenomenon that had recently occurred in the neighborhood.

Jane had heard nothing of the marvelous event, so Martha described with enthusiasm how a ball of flame had fallen from the sky one night and landed near Hurstbourne Hill, inciting quite a bit of interest in their quiet corner of England.

“One of Mr. Blount’s grooms plainly saw an object bright and fiery blaze across the sky,” said Martha. “And it was accompanied by a great noise, loud enough to rattle the windows all the way to Stoke. And when several men of the village went to the place where it had seemed to land they found a strange round stone, which they say was uncommonly warm to the touch.”

“And now a great many curious gentlemen have come from all over England to look at our little meteor,” added Mrs. Lloyd. “Important scholars and philosophers from town, even.”

“And they all agree that it is a piece of a star from the heavens themselves!” said Martha. “Can you imagine?”

Jane had no trouble agreeing that it was a most fascinating tale, and easily the most interesting thing to happen in the neighborhood since Mr. Bendish had accidentally shot his steward in the thigh with a dueling pistol.

“It all bodes exceedingly well for the Andover ball,” said Mrs. Lloyd, helping herself to another biscuit. “I expect there will be an abundance of eligible gentleman in attendance tomorrow night.”

The assembly in nearby Andover had been the ostensible impetus for Jane’s visit — not that she needed an excuse to visit Martha, who was a friend almost as dear as her own sister — and both young women had been looking forward to the event for some weeks.

“Where is this remarkable stone being kept?” asked Jane, who found her interest exceptionally provoked by the news of the meteor. “Might we see it for ourselves?”

“I am afraid not,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Mr. Blount has it locked up in his study. So no harm befalls it, of course.”

“He guards it jealously, only admitting those he deems qualified observers,” said Martha as she refilled the teacups. “Which sadly does not include silly young women like ourselves.”

“Speaking of Mr. Blount, Jane, dear,” said Mrs. Lloyd, “I am sure you remember his butler Gibson.”

“Certainly,” said Jane, who remembered no one of the sort.

“Dead, poor man! Only four days past. It came on him suddenly, right in the midst of breakfast. Carried off by a weakness of the heart, they say. And he was only eight-and-forty. It makes one think.”

“Indeed it does,” said Jane, who was thinking, not of poor Gibson, but of the meteor that had fallen in Hurstbourne. As she sipped her tea she wondered how far the meteor must have traveled in order to come here, and what marvelous things it might have seen along the way. It was just a stone now, but what had it been before its long journey? Was it truly a piece of a star that had shone upon strange and wondrous worlds? Perhaps it had been part of a great mountain upon one of those worlds or a stone on a far distant beach? The possibilities were more than her mind could encompass.

Indeed, nothing else that was talked of during the whole rest of the day could dislodge the meteor from her thoughts, though much was said on the subject of her father’s new pigsties and of the gout in Mrs. Lloyd’s knee.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The Andover assembly was, in fact, very well attended.

It was the last ball of the winter season and the upper rooms of the White Hart had been done up accordingly. There were a lot of ladies in fine colorful dresses and an even greater number of gentlemen in nearly identical dark suits. There was a lively quartet of musicians, an abundance of rack punch (lukewarm) and white soup (also lukewarm), and a decided want of chairs. In short, there was everything necessary to constitute a good ball in any part of the country.

Jane noted the surfeit of gentlemen with pleasure as her party entered the assembly rooms. There were a number of faces she recognized from her previous visits to the neighborhood, but also several new ones to arouse her interest.

“How hot it is,” said Mrs. Lloyd, mopping at her brow as she surveyed the crowded rooms. “One wishes they would throw open the windows.”

Martha leaned over and spoke quietly into her friend’s ear. “Now, Jane, you may set your heart at rest, for there are the Miss Debarys with their brother Peter.”

“You are a spiteful creature, Martha Lloyd,” Jane whispered back.

The Debarys resided in the parsonage just down the lane from Ibthorpe House. The Rev. Mr. Debary and his wife were pleasant enough, if a trifle on the dull side, but their numerous daughters were flightier than a flock of sparrows. And their eldest son Peter, who bordered on the downright odious, was not at all improved by the fact that he had apparently set his cap at Jane.

“Let us make our escape quickly, before they see us,” said Jane, seizing Martha’s hand. She turned, with the intention of taking them both away across the room, and most unfortunately careened squarely into the chest of a strange gentleman.

“Hello!” said the stranger, looking more startled than perturbed. He was a tall man, skinny almost to the point of being gaunt, with a mop of exceedingly untidy brown hair upon his head and a sprinkling of freckles across the pale skin of his cheeks.

“I do beg your pardon, sir,” said Jane, blushing a deep crimson.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Lloyd,” said Sir Thomas Williams, who had been in conversation with the gentleman into whom Jane had careened. “May I present Dr. John Smith of London?”

“How do you do?” Mrs. Lloyd gestured to the two girls. “My daughter Martha and our friend Miss Jane Austen.”

Dr. Smith started visibly. “Jane Austen!” he repeated with an odd degree of excitement. “Aren’t you just? Brilliant!”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Smith, were we previously acquainted?” asked Jane, puzzled.

“Not a bit,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “Lovely!”

“Dr. Smith has come from London to study the Hurstbourne Meteor,” explained Sir Thomas.

“Oh, are you a scholar of natural philosophy, then?” asked Mrs. Lloyd.

“Among other things,” said Dr. Smith.

“And what field of study do you specialize in?”

Dr. Smith waved his hand vaguely. “Oh, a bit here, a bit there. You might say the whole universe is my field.”

“That seems rather a large field for one man,” observed Martha.

He cocked an eyebrow sagely. “You’ve no idea.”

“Have you had an opportunity to observe the fallen star yourself?” asked Jane, who’d had great hopes of meeting someone who might give her a first-hand description of the meteor.

“I have indeed.”

“Wonderful! You must tell us what you make of it.”

“Fascinating stuff! Though it’s not a star, you know, but a rather puzzling bit of trans-stellar engineering amateurishly cobbled together with elements of gravitational propulsion, magno-flux generators and astral dynamics. Amazing the thing ever made it here, to be honest.”

“I see,” said Jane.

He blinked at her. “Do you?”

“Not at all.”

Dr. Smith broke into a broad grin, flashing a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. “Perhaps Miss Austen would be kind enough reserve the allemande? Always been fond of a good allemande.”

Jane nodded her assent, and the two men excused themselves and moved off.

“He’s certainly a queer fellow,” said Martha once they were safely out of earshot.

“Really, Martha,” chided Mrs. Lloyd. “You would do well to keep such opinions to yourself. Is it any wonder you’ll end up sitting down most of the night?”

Silently Jane agreed with Martha. Dr. Smith’s manner was decidedly odd, and not a little rude. And yet... There was something about him that provoked her interest, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Perhaps it was his lively eye, or the way he prattled so bewilderingly, but with such infectious enthusiasm. Whatever the reason, Jane found herself intrigued by this new acquaintance.

“I suppose one could do worse in a dance partner,” she said philosophically.

“Miss Austen!”

Propitiously, Jane found herself accosted by Peter Debary, who cast only a cursory nod in the direction of Martha and Mrs. Lloyd before bestowing a whole scrape and half a short bow upon her.

“Mr. Debary, how do you do you?” she said with more affability than she felt.

“Do excuse us,” said Martha, taking her mother’s arm. “For I have just spied Mrs. Gladstone and we simply must thank her for the lovely ham she sent last week.” And with that Martha led her mother away, cruelly abandoning Jane to her would-be beau.

“It looks a very stupid ball tonight, does it not?” said Mr. Debary, casting a haughty eye about the room. He was a squat and doughy-looking man, with a proud, stately bearing unsupported by the meanness of his mind and his thorough want of elegance or amiability.

“Does it?” said Jane. “I’d thought it rather lively until now.”

Mr. Debary indicated his disapprobation with a contemptuous sniff before changing the subject. “I suppose you heard I have taken the curacy of Eversley? A most desirable position, quite convenient to town, you know. And how much do you think the salary, Miss Austen?”

“I am sure I cannot guess.” Jane’s eye wandered until she spied Martha, smirking at her from across the room. She shot a malevolent glare in her friend’s direction.

“Seventy-five pounds. What do you say to that? Not many are half so lucky in their situation.”

“How happy for you, Mr. Debary.”

“Your brother, I believe, is the curate of Deane, which is a great deal farther from town, and I am certain cannot bring a salary above fifty pounds.”

“Nevertheless, it seems to suit him,” said Jane coldly.

“Ah, I see the set is commencing. I suppose we ought to stand up together, eh, Miss Austen?”

Before Jane could form a civil response to this uncivil proposition, Dr. Smith appeared at her side, as if out of thin air.

“I’m afraid the lady is previously engaged,” he said, extending his arm. “Isn’t that right, Miss Austen?”

“Quite right,” she said levelly. “Please excuse me, Mr. Debary.” She gave a curt nod and allowed Dr. Smith to lead her away.

“I feel compelled to point out,” she said as they took their place among the other dancers, “that this is not an allemande.”

“It’s not?” Dr. Smith’s expression was all innocence, but there was a playful gleam in his eye that told her he’d known exactly what he was about. “My mistake. Shall I return you to the company of that dreadful bore over there?”

“That will not be necessary,” she said, stifling a smile behind a gloved hand.

Further conversation was unavoidably curtailed by the beginning of the first dance. Jane had little expectation of Dr. Smith’s being an accomplished partner, but on that account she was entirely mistaken. Though his peculiar manners left something to be desired, his dancing most certainly did not, and they moved through the set with enough grace and confidence to draw the jealous eye of at least two of the three Miss Debarys in attendance. Jane found that their time together passed pleasantly and, she was surprised to discover, altogether too quickly for her taste. At the end of it, Dr. Smith led her back over to Martha and Mrs. Lloyd, bowed deeply, and moved off into the crowded room.

“Well?” said Martha. “What do you think of your Dr. Smith now?”

“He is...” Jane paused to consider how best to describe her dance partner. “Pleasingly tall,” she finally settled upon.

“Tall?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Pleasingly so.”

The two young women shared a look that quickly dissolved into laughter, provoking a lecture from Mrs. Lloyd on acting their age.

Jane stood up thrice more that evening, once with an amiable young naval officer (who also danced with Martha), once with a kind but dreadfully tedious neighbor of the Lloyds, and once, unavoidably, with Peter Debary, who trod upon her foot no less than three times during the set. Throughout it all, she found herself periodically searching the rooms for another glimpse of Dr. Smith. Alas, he seemed to have disappeared as abruptly as he’d previously appeared, taking her hopes for further conversation with him. To Jane’s further disappointment, she met no one else  at the ball that night who could claim to have seen Mr. Blount’s meteor with his own eyes.

Despite the early departure of the only interesting gentleman Jane chanced to meet the entire evening, one might right have rated the Andover ball an unqualified success. That is, until Mrs. Rolle was found face down in her soup, dead as yesterday’s mackerel.

The unfortunate woman was getting up in years and known to have a weak heart, so her passing was no great surprise, though it did put a bit of damper on the ball. Shortly thereafter, Jane and Martha submitted to the wish of Mrs. Lloyd, which took them away from the assembly rooms and off to the comforts of Ibthorpe.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The next day was one of those days that starts out gray and cloudy and only becomes grayer and cloudier as it goes along, until eventually one begins to wish it would just rain already and get it over with instead of hanging about threatening all the time.

Jane felt unaccountably dull and restless, Martha’s mood was similarly bleak, and Mrs. Lloyd awakened with a cold in her head that seemed to have come on her overnight. The apothecary was duly sent for, and though he reported that there was nothing in her condition to alarm, the mood in Ibthorpe House remained as dreary as the weather.

This cheerless atmosphere seemed unlikely to be improved by a late-morning visit from the Miss Debarys. As it turned out, however, they had come to deliver an invitation to dine at the parsonage the following day. And while an evening in the company of the endless Debarys was not generally an occasion to excite much enthusiasm on Jane’s part, as it further turned out, Sir Thomas and his friend Dr. Smith had been extended the same invitation.

The weather persisted in its gloomy cast the next day, which saw Mrs. Lloyd’s condition not at all improved. Martha was reluctant to dine away from home with her mother feeling poorly, but Mrs. Lloyd was vehement that she would be just fine and the girls should by all means go without her. Jane was silently relieved, as she had been looking forward to continuing her acquaintance with the peculiar Dr. Smith.

And so at the appointed time, Jane Austen and Martha Lloyd presented themselves at the parsonage, and were received with great cordiality by the Rev. Mr. Debary and his wife; with somewhat less cordiality by their disagreeable son Peter; and with much giggling and twittering on the part of their three extremely silly daughters, Mary, Sally and Susan. Of Sir Thomas or Dr. Smith there was as yet no sign, but Jane could not bring herself to ask if they were still expected.

The conversation quickly turned to Peter’s new curacy, as conversation so often seemed to do in the young gentleman’s presence. Mr. Debary spoke with pride of his son’s dedication to his parish and the many hours now devoted to Eversley, while Mrs. Debary expressed a motherly wish that Peter were more often at home in Ibthorpe, “for his company is so desirable to us all.” This last was said with a meaningful look in Jane’s direction.

She was fortunately saved the trouble of feigning agreement by the arrival of Sir Thomas and Dr. Smith. The wind had been rising throughout the afternoon and the first fat drops of rain had finally worked up the wherewithal to fall, in consequence of which both men entered the drawing room looking windblown and somewhat damp. Jane could not help observing that the influence of the elements seemed to lend an improvement to Dr. Smith’s boyish looks.

Now that the whole party were arrived the doors were thrown open to admit them into the dining parlor, which had been appointed with abundance and elegance for the occasion. Jane was not at all surprised to find herself seated beside Peter and at some distance from Dr. Smith, whose attention was very much taken up by the rapturous addresses of the three Debary girls.

She listened dispassionately as Peter embarked upon a lengthy description of the gardens surrounding his abode in Eversley, until Mr. Debary, sitting on Jane’s other side, inquired after the absent Mrs. Lloyd’s health.

Martha, sitting at Mr. Debary’s other hand, thanked him for his kind anxiety on her mother’s behalf. “But we expect that she will be fully recovered in a day or two, do we not, Jane?”

“Indeed we do.”

“Nevertheless, I hope that Mr. Bromley the apothecary been called,” said Mrs. Debary fretfully.

“Mr. Bromley has seen her and proscribed nothing stronger than dandelion tea for her affliction,” said Martha.

“He seemed to want her to have a sore throat and to go down with a fever but she has stubbornly refused to do either,” added Jane.

“That’s a relief,” said Mrs. Debary. “You must tell her maid to make her up some camphor — it is the best tonic for an ague. One cannot take too much care in these matters, especially in light of that terrible business with poor Mrs. Rolle the other night.”

“What an upsetting event that was,” said Sally. “For I had planned to dance a second time with Frederick Pole and after they found Mrs. Rolle the musicians would play no more and so I could not!”

“I am sure her family suffers tremendously,” said Mary, who possessed slightly more sense than her sister. “Such a shock it must have been!”

Sir Thomas leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Rolle was a woman in possession of an excessive girth and a bad heart. Even those who loved her best can hardly have been shocked by her unfortunate demise.”

“If that woman died of heart failure then I’m the Queen of Cucamonga,” declared Dr. Smith.

This startling utterance won him the full and immediate attention of everyone in the room. The doctor, seemingly oblivious to the rapt audience he now commanded, continued to shovel spoonfuls of soup into his mouth like a man coming off a week-long fast. The growl of distant thunder filled the silence, accompanied by the sound of the rain rattling against the windows.

“Pray, tell us what you mean,” prodded Sir Thomas finally.

“Well...” said Dr. Smith, putting aside his spoon at last. “Surely I’m not the only one who’s noticed the unusually high mortality rate round this little corner of Hampshire lately?” He paused, casting his gaze expectantly around the room. “And I assume from your blank stares I am.”

“Gibson,” said Jane abruptly, recalling Mrs. Lloyd’s story. “Mr Blount’s butler.”

“That’s one,” said Dr. Smith, beaming approval. “Well done!”

“Poor Molly Dawson down in the village,” added Martha. “They said she took a sudden fever.”

“That’s two,” said Dr. Smith, holding up the appropriate number of digits.

“There was a lodger of Mr. Crabbe’s who died mysteriously in his sleep at the weekend!” cried Sir Thomas, getting quite into the spirit.

“Three,” intoned Dr. Smith, holding up a third finger.

“That poor man at the dairy was kicked in the head by a mule!” cried Susan.

Dr. Smith shook his head gently. “I’m afraid that was just an unhappy accident, unrelated to our current mystery. Jolly good try, though.”

“Mrs. Colman’s maid Jenny,” said Mrs. Debary. “The poor thing was found in the mill pond Friday last. But they said she must have hit her head and drowned.”

Dr. Smith gave an indignant snort. “Rubbish.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Falderal. Balderdash. Poppycock! The hapless Jenny had no visible contusions nor any water present in her lungs. Whatever killed her, it definitely wasn’t drowning.”

Lightning flashed outside, briefly lighting up the room, followed by a low rumble of thunder.

“And how would you know such a thing?” demanded Peter.

“Because I examined the body for myself, of course. Which brings us to four, and the unfortunate Mrs. Rolle makes five. One, two, three, four, five deaths —” Dr. Smith counted them out on his fingers for emphasis, “— of supposedly natural causes in the span of one week. A wee bit excessive, don’t you think? But what’s most intriguing is that they all seem to have occurred since that mysterious hunk of rock fell from the sky.”

As if to drive home the ominous nature of this revelation, there was another flash of lightning attended by a deafening crash of thunder, which rattled the windows and shook the very walls of the parsonage. All three Debary girls started violently and cried out in fright, their mother looked as if she might faint dead away, and even Martha, Jane noticed, seemed somewhat alarmed. Jane herself couldn’t help feeling uneasy as she thought of dear Mrs. Lloyd abed with a cold.

“That will be quite enough on that subject,” said Mr. Debary sternly. “You are frightening the women unnecessarily with these wild stories.”

“My sincere apologies,” said Dr. Smith, looking neither sincere nor apologetic.

Mr. Debary turned purposefully to Sir Thomas. “Tell me, Sir Thomas, how do you like that little black pointer you acquired last month? She looks a fine specimen, but is she steady to wing and shot?” And with that the conversation was firmly steered to more mundane topics, and on such trivialities it remained for the balance of the meal.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

It was still raining in earnest by the time the ladies withdrew to the drawing room after dinner. Sally took up a position at the window where she could watch the rain sheeting against the pane and lament the ill weather. Mrs. Debary retired to her customary seat by the fire and, drawing Martha to a chair beside her, proceeded to expound the recent difficulties of acquiring fish. Mary and Susan, meanwhile, engaged themselves in an argument over the relative merits of their newly acquired bonnets. They attempted with some vigor to draw Jane into their deliberations, but she declared firmly that she had no opinion to give as she had seen neither of the bonnets in question, and therefore resolutely refused to be drawn.

In the midst of such sparkling discourse, is it any wonder Jane found herself impatient for the gentlemen to join them? But at last the coffee came in, followed soon after by the other half of their party. At first Dr. Smith was again monopolized by the attentions of the Debary girls, who had recovered from their dinnertime fright with renewed enthusiasm for their new acquaintance. But it was not long before Mary proposed a game of speculation, a venture that was supported eagerly by her sisters. Though they tried with great spirit to recruit the doctor to join them, he was steadfast in his refusal, and in the end they were forced to settle for the company of Peter and Sir Thomas at the card table. 

Jane, having also refused an invitation to play, soon found herself approached by Dr. Smith and indicated with a smile and a nod that he should be free to join her on the sofa.

“Tell me, Miss Austen,” he began, settling his lanky frame onto the cushion beside her, “how goes the writing?”

Jane was quite taken off her guard by this inquiry, as she rarely spoke of her hobby to anyone outside of a small circle of intimate friends and family, and could not imagine how Dr. Smith might have heard about about it. “As it happens,” she replied, quickly recovering her composure, “I am not writing anything at present, and am strongly considering giving up the hobby altogether.”

“No, no, no, no, no!” cried Dr. Smith with startling fervor. “This won’t do at all. You can’t give it up!”

“Upon my word, I cannot see why not.”

“Well, because you love it, for one thing! And you’re brilliant at it, for another. Er... I imagine you must be, that is. Oh, but a great writer is a gift to the future! And you, Miss Austen, could very well be the greatest gift of your generation.”

Jane deflected this bewildering compliment with a derisive laugh. “Since I have only recently received an eloquently-worded rejection from a publisher who disagrees with you most resolutely, I believe it must be admitted that mine is life too small, my experiences altogether too ordinary, to offer anything of real value to literature. Jane Austen is not destined for success as a writer, and so I had better turn my attentions to more practical pursuits.”

“Bah! What’s a Fleet Street bookmonger know of great literature? Believe me, there’s nothing small about an ordinary life lived well. To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to leave the world a bit better... Well, that’s what I’d call success!”

Jane shook her head in confusion. Surely Dr. Smith was jesting with her, but the intensity of his demeanor did not seem that of a man speaking facetiously. Puzzled, and uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken, she undertook to change the subject to one that had been much on her mind since dinner. “I should be very interested to hear more of your theories on the meteor.”

He leaned back against the sofa cushions and rubbed the side of his face thoughtfully. “Well, to start with, your meteorite is hollow on the inside. And do you know what that means?”

“No indeed.”

He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “It’s not a meteorite at all.”

“Do you mean to say the stone didn’t come from the heavens?”

“Oh, it’s extra-terrestrial all right. But as far as I can tell it’s not a natural object. The thing was badly burned when it entered the earth’s atmosphere, but if I’m not mistaken — and I rarely am — someone constructed it on purpose, most likely as some kind of space vessel.”

“Now I know you are teasing me,” chided Jane. “Surely you are not suggesting that some exotic being has traveled from beyond the very stars themselves, only to land here in Hurstbourne Tarrant!”

He shrugged and gave her a mysterious sort of smile. “Stranger things have happened...”

Jane would have questioned him further, but at that moment there came a chorus of screams from the direction of the card table. Jane and Dr. Smith both leapt to their feet to see what was the matter, and  discovered that Sir Thomas had collapsed to the floor, where he lay prone and unmoving.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Astute readers may recognize something the Doctor says in this chapter as part of a rather famous poem which is often mis-attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson and/or Robert Louis Stevenson. Since the genesis of the verses remains somewhat [murky](http://www.chebucto.ns.ca/Philosophy/Sui-Generis/Emerson/success.htm), I intended to imply that the Doctor might be their originator, but I in no way mean to imply that _I_ am.


	6. Chapter 6

Dr. Smith crossed the room in two great strides, donned a pair of monstrously large spectacles, and knelt beside the stricken Sir Thomas. “Hmmmm,” he said, peering into the ashen face of the afflicted man. “Hmmm,” he said again.

“What’s the matter with him?” demanded Mr. Debary.

“The matter,” said Dr. Smith, pushing his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose, “is that he’s dead.”

At this news Mrs. Debary let out a strangled sort of scream, clutched at her heart and promptly collapsed in a swoon. At the same time the three Debary girls, as one, dissolved into a fit of hysterical crying. Mr. Debary rushed to attend to his wife, leaving Peter to calm his three sisters, a task that would have been ambitious even for a man far superior to he.

Dr. Smith, meanwhile, was paying no attention whatsoever to the histrionics of the Debarys. Instead he had begun pacing about, his sharp gaze searching round the room, his brow furrowed in concentration. Wondering what he could possibly be looking for, Jane glanced around as well. It was only by purest chance that she happened to be looking towards the door to the hall when something small, silvery, and nearly transparent ran out from behind a bookcase, crawled over the floor, and slipped under the gap beneath the closed door. The strange thing was almost insect-like in appearance, but like no insect Jane had ever seen, and nearly the size of a salamander.

“Dr. Smith!” she cried in alarm.

He wheeled round. “What is it?”

“Some sort of creature crawled under that door and into the hallway.”

He beamed at her. “Brilliantly done, Miss Austen! _Molto bene_!” And then he darted out of the room in pursuit of the mystery creature, shutting the door in his wake.

The Debarys, otherwise occupied at present, noticed none of this, of course. It should perhaps be noted that Jane had felt the want of some excitement in her life for quite some time. She had spent much of her youth in prudence, and learnt the yearning for romance only recently, as she had grown older and begun to feel the walls of her life closing in on her. Her recent literary disappointment had only served to heighten her sense of dissatisfaction with her own situation.

Therefore, in the Debarys’ distraction Jane saw an opportunity and seized it, along with Martha’s hand. “Shall we follow him and see what he finds?”

“Do we dare?” asked Martha, aghast.

“Indeed, I think we do. Nay, I think we must! For how often is an opportunity for true adventure likely to present itself to us? When such an exigency occurs, Martha, will you stride boldly forth to answer, or will you recoil and tremble with fear of the unknown?” She threw a pointed glance at the Debary girls, to illustrate her point.

Martha acquiesced, albeit reluctantly, and allowed her friend to lead her forth. The two young women moved to the door through which Dr. Smith had disappeared and paused, hoping for a courage that will almost never be supplied by the outside of closed door. Finding no assistance from external sources, Jane looked to her own spirit to support her, and support her it did. She threw open the door and drew Martha firmly into the hall. There they found Dr. Smith standing in the open doorway of the library, searching for something in his breast pocket. “Ah ha!” he declared to no one in particular as he withdrew a strange-looking mechanical device that resembled a wand. He looked up at their approached and smiled. “Our mysterious visitor seems to have taken refuge in the library. Shall we?”

Jane nodded eagerly and followed him into Mr. Debary’s library, still grasping Martha’s hand. The smell of tobacco and Scotch whiskey lingered in the stale air, mingled with the musty odor of books.

“Keep sharp,” warned Dr. Smith, pointing his odd gadget round the room. “You don’t want to let it get close to you.”

Jane felt Martha’s hand tighten in her own, and she gave a reassuring squeeze in answer. “What, precisely, is it?” she asked, as they began searching the room for signs of the creature.

“Some species of parasite, I’d imagine. Possibly from Vesp or somewhere in the Pholgon System, though I’m just speculating, really. If I got a good look at it I might be able to tell you more precisely.”

“It was much of a size with a newt, or perhaps a little smaller,” said Jane. “Translucent. With a multitude of legs, almost like a centipede, but with a broader head.”

Dr. Smith tugged at his ear thoughtfully. “Well, now, that’s one I’ve not encountered before. Could be a construct of the Tygonites, though I’ve never known them to dabble in insects before. Now the Yssarions, they like a good insect — decorated their whole palace with the bloody things. ’Course they’re millions of years away from interstellar travel, yet.”

Jane stared at him in wonder. “You’re not from London, are you, Dr. Smith?”

“Not exactly,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I’m not really a doctor, either, least not the way you think. Nor am I a Smith.”

“Who are you?” asked Martha.

“I’m the Doctor,” he said, as if this explained all.

Just then there came a skrittering sound, like dozens of little insectile legs scritching against a wooden floor, and the small silvery creature ran out from under the billiard table. It raced for the cover of a nearby chair, but Dr. Smith darted into its path. Blocked from any obvious means of retreat, the buglike creature froze.

Dr. Smith flopped down onto the floor, so that he was at eye level with the thing. “Look at you!” he cried, peering at it. “Aren’t you a beautiful little thing!” 

Jane found she could not agree. The creature had altogether too many legs for her taste, and appeared to have three beady eyes upon its wretched head. “Ugh,” she said.

The detestable thing spun round and looked for all the world as if it were glaring at her. Then it quickly scampered off behind a bookcase.

“Well!” said Dr. Smith, standing up and dusting himself off. “That was rude.”

“What sort of thing was that?” asked Martha.

“Technically speaking?”

“If you please.”

“Absolutely no idea.”

There was another skrittering sound and Jane turned to look as the silvery creature shot out from behind the bookcase and ran straight at her. She froze, unable to move or scream or do anything at all as the vile thing bore down on her.

“Oh no you don’t!” Dr. Smith lunged, grabbing Jane’s arm and pulling her out of the creature’s path. Unfortunately, she was still clutching Martha’s hand, so just as Jane was dragged out of danger, Martha was dragged into it. Jane looked on, aghast, as the creature leapt onto Martha’s skirts and wriggled its way up with astonishing speed until it had reached her face. Then, to Jane’s further horror, the beast crawled into one of Martha’s nostrils and disappeared.

Rather than cry out or struggle, Martha stood stock still as though paralyzed, her eyes gone strangely glassy and unseeing. Then she collapsed to the floor, utterly senseless.

Jane cried out and attempted to rush to her friend’s aid but Dr. Smith forcibly restrained her. “No!” he cried. “Keep away from her! It’s imperative that nothing happen to you.”

“But it’s somehow tolerable if something happens to Martha?” she demanded.  
   
“Just do as I say,” he said sharply. “And stay back.”

Too furious to speak, Jane nevertheless submitted to his wishes and kept her distance as he cautiously approached the prone figure of Martha Lloyd. He knelt beside her and pointed his metal device at her face. It made an eerie whirring sound, and an unearthly blue light shone on Martha’s pale skin.

“Is she...” Jane trailed off, unable to voice her fear.

“She’s alive,” he assured her, not unkindly, as he tucked the device back in his pocket.

Just then Martha’s eyes flew open and she sat up, looking very much her old self, albeit somewhat disoriented. “Jane? What happened?”

Jane sighed with relief and started forward, but Dr. Smith put up a hand to halt her. “Who are you?” he asked the bewildered Martha.

She looked at him strangely. “We’ve met, Dr. Smith. I’m Miss Lloyd.”

“Not you,” he said. “I’m speaking to the other one in there.”

“I do not understand what you mean.”

“Really, Dr. Smith, there’s no need to be rude. She seems well, does she not?” ventured Jane.

“She’s not well, in fact she’s very much not herself at the moment. Now,” he said, fixing Martha with a menacing glare, “I’m the Doctor, the last of the Time Lords, and you will tell me who you are and where you come from or I promise I will make you rue the day you ever came to this planet.” His voice was cold as steel and his eyes burned with an intensity that caused Jane to take an involuntary step back.

Martha looked at him blankly, and then she said, in a voice that was dull and flat and very much not Martha’s, “I am Panthalassa, a triostreen from the planet Kaluthrix, and I am also the last of my kind.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Jane gasped in shock, but Dr. Smith seemed utterly nonplussed by Martha’s strange declaration. “Triostreens,” he mused. “Can’t say I’m familiar with them.”

“We are — were — a race of telepathic symbiots who lived in peaceful harmony with our host species the skagra, on a planet called Kaluthrix, beyond the Flame Nebula. But Kaluthrix was subsumed by a dying star and I alone of all my kind managed to escape in a crudely-made space pod. There was no navigation system, and only enough life support to keep me in stasis as I wandered aimlessly among the stars, until finally crashing here, on Sol III.”

“Where you promptly crawled into the first human you could find and began feeding off his brain waves,” said Dr. Smith.

“Humans are the only sentient species on this planet whose brains produce enough electrochemical energy to sustain me. And without a host I would surely die.”

“Ah, but they’re not exactly sustaining you, are they? They’re dying off at a very inconvenient rate.” He shined his silver wand on her face again. “Well, there’s your problem! You’re feeding off theta waves! And humans don’t produce enough theta waves to sustain the both of you. Alpha and beta, sure, even a good bit of delta, but theta? Pfft. That’s why you’re killing them at a rate of nearly one per day.”

“The fat woman lasted almost two full days before giving out,” said the not-Martha creature flatly.

“She was a person!” cried Jane, finally finding her voice. “She had children and friends and you... you crawled inside her and killed her! Just as you killed Sir Thomas and the others!”

Martha’s eyes, looking so much like her dear friend’s eyes used to look, yet so much colder, gazed at Jane. “I do not kill for sport, as men who hunt the lesser animals of your planet do, but rather as the owl hunts mice for food, or the lion may feed on a gazelle. So am I now forced to kill for my own survival,  though it was not always so. There are millions and millions of humans on this planet, but only one of me, unique now among the universe. Do I not deserve to survive, if I can?”

Jane turned to Dr. Smith for support, only to realize his once-angry features had softened to an expression that was alarmingly close to sympathy. “You must do something!” she insisted. “Tell her! Tell her she must stop!”

“She’s not wrong.”

“And what of Martha Lloyd?” demanded Jane. “Is she not unique among God’s creatures? Is she not deserving of life, or is she to be sacrificed in order to unnaturally extend the existence of another? Where is the fairness in that?”

“I’m afraid there is no fair,” said Dr. Smith softly. “There’s only life.”

Jane’s heart was heavy with self-condemnation. It was she who had been so keen to make Dr. Smith’s acquaintance; she who had wanted to know more about the meteor; and she who had dragged poor Martha along unwillingly in pursuit of this adventure. And now look what had happened! Her friend was in danger and she had no one to blame but herself and her cursed curiosity. “Please, Dr. Smith, I beseech you. You must make her give up Martha’s body! Force her out if you must!”

The doctor frowned. “I don’t know if I can. Maybe, but... not without considerable risk to your friend.”

The agony of Jane’s mind at this news was extreme. Unable to bury the tumult of her feelings, she fell to her knees beside Martha’s body, grasping her friend’s hands and pressing them to her own breast. “Please,” she said to the thing that had stolen Martha. “Please let her go. I’m begging you with all of my heart.”

The cold, empty eyes stared back at her. “You ask me to give up my own life for another. Why would I do this? Unless...” The creature paused. “Would you offer yourself as host in her place?”

“Yes!” cried Jane.

“No,” said Dr. Smith, firmly pulling Jane to her feet and away from Martha. “That I cannot allow.”

“Why? Why am I worthy of your protection but not Martha?”

The Doctor opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Then said, “It’s complicated. I don’t have time to explain, just... trust me. I'll find another way to help Martha, I promise.”

But Jane could not trust him, not when he seemed resigned to abandon Martha to this dreadful fate only a moment ago. She drew herself up to her full height, looked him in the eye and said, in a quiet but very firm voice: “You would do well to devise another solution quickly, Dr. Smith, because if you will not save Martha I shall, by whatever means are within my power.”

“Give me a minute, I’m thinking!” He sucked his teeth as his brow furrowed in concentration. “Hang on!” he cried suddenly, turning back to Martha. “You want another host, yes? But what you really need is one that won’t burn out in a few hours like these humans do. So all we need to do is find you a better host, one that can sustain you indefinitely like the skagra on your homeworld.”

“Humans are the most compatible extant species on this planet.”

“Well, we’ll just have to go to another planet, won’t we?”

“My capsule was destroyed in the crash. Even if it were to be repaired I doubt it would carry me to another suitable planet.”

He grinned smugly. “Good thing you’re not the only one round here with a spaceship, then. So! Who wants to go for a ride?”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The three of them — Dr. Smith, Jane, and the thing now masquerading as Martha — had no trouble whatsoever slipping unnoticed out of the parsonage, preoccupied as everyone else was with the untimely expiring of Sir Thomas and the nervous collapse of the Debary women. Now, trudging through the muddy countryside (though the rain had blessedly stopped, for which Jane gave thanks) to the secret location of Dr. Smith's mysterious flying machine, Jane felt a thrill of hope course through her. A hope that was almost immediately tempered by fear. She quickened her step to come up alongside the doctor. "Dr. Smith?" she ventured.

"The Doctor," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My name. It's not Smith, it's the Doctor."

"Just the Doctor?"

"That's me," he said, giving a friendly wave.

"Don't be absurd, that's no proper name for civilized society. I believe I shall stick with Dr. Smith, if you don't mind."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

She cast a worried glance back at Martha, following dutifully behind them. "Will it work, do you think? That is to say, Martha is still in there, is she not? If you find another host will my Martha be my Martha again, whole and well?"

The Doctor nodded. "Should do. Assuming we get Panthalassa out of there soon enough."

"How soon is soon enough?"

"In the next hour, I'd guess."

Jane felt all her hope drain away. "Is that even possible? How should we travel to another world in such a short time?"

The Doctor gave her a reassuring smile. "You leave that to me."

Another ten minutes of squelching through the quagmire brought the three mud-soaked figures to a stand of very damp trees upon a low hill. In the moonlight Jane could just make out the shape of a tall, rectangular wooden box, looking very out of place amongst the rest of the landscape.

"Here we are!" cried the Doctor merrily.

"That?" asked Jane skeptically as she attempted to brush some of the muck off her skirts. "But it's just a box. And not a terribly large one, at that."

"Wait'll you see the inside." He unlocked a narrow wooden door and beckoned for the others to precede him, which they did.

Martha led the way, looking around approvingly as they stepped into the Doctor's box. "Very impressive," she said in that eerily flat voice of Panthalassa's.

Jane suppressed a shiver. She despised that voice and she despised the thing that had taken over her beloved Martha. Then she took in the room around her and was forced to suppress another shiver, for she'd never in her life been anywhere so strange, so utterly and completely alien. For the first time since making the Doctor's acquaintance, Jane truly understood that he was from another world. His flying machine was indeed bigger than it looked and wasn't the least bit box-like on the inside. In fact, despite the presence of a number of obviously mechanical contraptions, standing inside it seemed like nothing so much as being inside another living thing. She wondered if this was what Jonah had felt like inside the whale; then it occurred to her to wonder if this was what Panthalassa felt like inside of Martha.

"How do you like her, now?" the Doctor asked Jane eagerly — boyishly so, in fact. He seemed to want very much for her to approve.

Not desiring to hurt his feelings, she forced herself to say "Very well," while doing her best to look impressed and not discomfited as she felt.

"Right, let's get this show on the road, shall we?" The Doctor strode to a large bank of controls in the middle of the room and began throwing levers and turning knobs with wild abandon while muttering to himself. "Theta waves... Who's got theta waves to spare? There's the giant gastropods of Jaconda, of course. Oh, but the slime! Wouldn't wish that on anyone."

He tapped his chin thoughtfully for a moment. "I've got it!" he cried, so abruptly it made Jane start, and began pushing buttons and flipping switches with renewed vigor. "It's so obvious! Can't believe I didn't think of it right away. Hold on everyone!" The Doctor smiled winningly as his contraption proceeded to do a great deal of shuddering and not a little lurching about. But after no more than twenty or thirty seconds the turbulence ceased altogether, and he announced that they had arrived.

"Is that it?" asked Jane.

"What do you mean, is that it?" cried the Doctor, affronted. "I'll have you know we've just crossed three and a half galaxies and several centuries via the finest in Gallifreyan spatio-temporal mechanics, the likes of which the universe will never see again!"

"Yes, but where are we?" Jane was beginning to weary of the Doctor's persistent showing off.

"Why don't you open the door and see for yourself." He cocked his head smugly. "Go on."

Jane moved to the door of the vessel and opened it as instructed. And then stood there, her mouth agape in wonder, as she beheld the most magnificent landscape she'd ever beheld or even imagined in the most fantastical of childhood dreams. The sky was a vivid, deep magenta, fading to pale pink at the horizon and dotted with clouds the color of emeralds. Beneath a brilliant purple sun was a field of blue-green grass that sparkled as the blades waved in the gentle breeze. And oh, the breeze! It carried with it the scent of the most wonderful, exotic flowers imaginable, but like nothing Jane had ever smelt before. Not far off, a herd of large slow-moving animals, resembling nothing so much as giant golden sheep, grazed upon the glittering grasses; several of the elephantine beasts raised their heads to gaze placidly at the newcomers.

"Knew I'd impress you eventually," said the Doctor, coming to stand beside her in the doorway.

"My home," said the creature controlling Martha with as much emotion as Jane had yet heard that eerie voice betray. "You've brought me back to Kaluthrix." As she stood gazing out the doorway a single tear traced a path down Martha's cheek.

"That's right," said the Doctor proudly. "Five hundred years before your sun goes supernova. And if I'm not mistaken, those great fluffy things over there are your skagras."

"But how is this possible?"

"Did I forget to mention this lovely machine travels in time as well space? What with me being a Time Lord, you see."

"I am grateful beyond words for this gift, Doctor." Martha's cold, alien eyes turned once more upon Jane. "And I am truly very sorry for the human lives that were lost. Please know that I never meant any harm."

Jane nodded numbly.

"Go on, now," said the Doctor. "Leave Miss Lloyd here and get on with you. And do try not to end up as your own grandmother... or grandfather... or variations thereupon."

Martha's body tensed and it was all Jane could do not to look away in distaste as the silvery creature crawled out of her friend's nostril, down to the floor and out the door, where it disappeared amongst the tall grasses. As soon as it was gone, Martha's eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed limply to the floor. Jane cried out in alarm and rushed to gather her friend in her arms. The Doctor knelt at her side and once more pointed his strange silver device at her. "She's fine," he said after a brief moment.

"You're certain?" asked Jane anxiously.

"Cross my hearts. She just needs a few hours to sleep off the effects of the parasitic infection and she'll be good as new again."

"Thank you, Doctor," said Jane hesitantly. "I was so very frightened for her."

He gazed down at Martha fondly. "I had a friend named Martha, too, you know. She was brilliant."

Jane observed something in the Doctor's attitude — a tension in the shoulders perhaps, or a strain round the eyes — that hinted at depths of sorrow hidden beneath his outwardly careless manner. "What happened to your Martha, Dr. Smith?" she asked.

"She left me. Twice, in fact. Always was a clever one, my Martha." He smiled wistfully, then hauled himself to his feet and wandered back over to the control panel.

"That was very kind," she said. "What you did for that creature."

"Ah," he said. "Well. No one should be alone in the universe." The shadow that had been hovering behind his expression became slightly more pronounced.

"As you are?"

The Doctor was silent. Then: "Guess we'd better get you home, eh?"

"Are you truly the very last of your kind?" she persisted.

"I am," he said, fiddling absently with a knob.

Just then, standing at the controls of his magical apparatus, alone at the center of all that wonder, Jane thought he looked very much like a little lost boy.

"But if you can travel in both space and time," she asked, "cannot you take yourself back to a past when your people were still alive?"

He gave her a sad smile. "I'm afraid it doesn't work like that. Not for me." His gaze wandered forlornly around the time machine for a moment. But then his mood seemed to shift, brightening as abruptly as it had clouded before. "Anyhow. Like I was saying. Home? That is... unless you fancy a quick trip?"

"A trip to where?"

"Oh, anywhere you like. Spy on Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel, stop off for a sherbet on Xadamos 12, catch a ride on a falling star..."

Jane was sorely tempted. To observe with her own eyes the wonders that lay beyond the heavens? To know more about the world than even the greatest scholars of the day? It would be the most extraordinary adventure imaginable! She could feel the pull of distant stars rising in her blood like a hunger.

But there was Martha, cradled lovingly in her lap. Dearest Martha, her truest, most affectionate friend, who might have perished tonight because Jane had drawn her — entirely unwillingly — into an adventure. Her conscience would not allow her to impose further dangers upon Martha. And what use was an adventure without such a friend to share it?

She bit her lip to quell the pounding of her pulse. "I think perhaps I ought see Martha home without further delay."

The Doctor nodded solemnly. "Right. In that case..." He once more adjusted the controls of his ship, then looked up at her and smiled. "_Allons-y_!"

The bumping and swaying were less pronounced this time, or perhaps Jane was becoming to inured to space travel so that they only seemed so. In any case, the return journey was over almost before she knew it had begun. Where, precisely, the Doctor had brought them, she could not discover until he threw open the door and she observed that they had landed right in the little garden behind Ibthorpe House. Gently, and with tremendous care, the Doctor gathered the unconscious Martha in his arms.

The rest of the household seemed to be asleep, and blessedly remained so as Jane guided him quietly up the narrow back stairs to Martha's little room.

"Well!" said the Doctor, once Martha was safely lain upon the bed. "It's been a great pleasure, Miss Austen. Truly."

Jane unfolded a wool rug to cover the sleeping young woman. "Will you pay a call tomorrow, Dr. Smith? I'm certain Martha would wish to convey her gratitude for all your aid."

The Doctor sidled towards the door. "I think not. Got to be off soon. Never really been fond of thank-yous, anyway."

"In that case I'll refrain from voicing mine, with the understanding that they are no less heartfelt for all that they remain unspoken."

"I appreciate that."

Still he was edging away, moving inevitably closer to the moment when he would make his exit. Jane took a step towards him to stay his escape, if only for a few more moments. "And that's it I imagine? You'll get back in your little box and fly away to another world and I never shall see you again?"

"Well..." he said, reaching up to ruffle the back of his hair. "Never say never. But yeah, pretty much."

"I imagine it must be exciting, hopping from one adventure to the next. But it also seems a very lonely way to live."

"Can be, at times," he admitted.

"Then why do it? Why not settle down somewhere and make a home for yourself?"

He smiled. "I'll tell you why I travel if you tell me why you write."

She considered a glib response, something blithe and witty, but in the end she decided on the truth — a truth she rarely admitted, even to herself. "I write because sometimes, when I'm very still, I can feel insanity lurking in the dark corners of my tiny little life, stalking me in my idle moments. Writing... seems to keep it at bay, somehow."

He nodded gravely. "Exactly so."

Jane considered this. And then she thought about a life spent flying around in that magnificent machine — skipping between worlds, spinning through the stars, all the wide wonders of the universe spread out within your grasp. She felt a renewed longing for such a life manifest itself as an ache somewhere between her stomach and her heart, the same place where her clergyman father had once told her the Holy Spirit resides.

She looked up at the Doctor. "You extended an invitation before. Might I still accept?"

He gazed at her a moment, long enough that she almost thought he might say yes, but then he shook his head. "I'd love you to come, but... best not. As it is you may end up writing _The Time Machine_ instead of _Northanger Abbey_ like you ought, and then I'll really be in for it with the English teachers."

"You are an exceedingly puzzling man, Dr. Smith."

"Aren't I just?" And then he took her hand and placed a very impertinent kiss upon it. Jane felt her cheeks flush, but she didn't object, nor pull away. The Doctor gifted her with one last brilliant smile before exiting the room and, in all probability, her life. The thought made her very sad, indeed.

She moved to the window overlooking the garden and watched as he slipped into his box below. An unearthly grinding noise filled the night and the box gradually faded from view until it was gone altogether. Jane's gaze lifted to the curtain of stars glittering in the sky above, and there it stayed, for a very long time.

  
   


 


	9. Epilogue

**_Chawton, England_** **  
_1817_**

  
At the age of one-and-forty, Jane Austen is not a woman one would necessarily expect to have led a remarkable life. On this count, however, one would be entirely mistaken.

She has, by the time this particular February morning rolls around, already published four well-received novels and can count the Prince Regent among her many admirers (though the prince cannot claim the same of her). She has laughed often and much, won the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, earned the appreciation of honest critics and endured the betrayal of false friends. And she has, with her own eyes, witnessed wonders far beyond the imagining of even the most learned men of her age.

She has also, in the last year, begun to suffer from a slow, irregular deterioration in her health. Though she makes light of her condition to those around her, she secretly feels the weight of her own mortality pressing upon her. The days may be growing longer with the approach of spring, but to Jane they have never seemed shorter. By April she will be confined to her bed; by July her earthly remains will be laid to rest in the nave of Winchester Cathedral.

But this is only February and in February she can still walk under her own power (most of the time), can still think and laugh and — most importantly — write. In fact, she has just begun a new novel the month before, and though she will never finish it, on this bright, cold February day she still believes that she can.

She sits in the parlor of her mother's house at Chawton where she now resides with her sister Cassandra and her friend Martha Lloyd. (The league of old spinsters, she sometimes calls the three of them, but she would not trade this comfortable situation for all the husbands in England.) It's a Sunday and the others have gone to services but Jane has stayed behind, pleading infirmity, though in truth it is her disposition that isn't up to the challenge today rather than her constitution.

She ought to be working on her latest novel, which may or may not be called _The Brothers_, but her concentration is vexingly poor this morning. It is the most welcome sort distraction, therefore, when she hears a strangely familiar sound outside — a sound she has not heard for 18 years, yet has remained firmly etched in her memory. She rises, her hand involuntarily clutching the cross she wears at her throat, and moves to the window. Out in the garden, between the primroses and the epimediums, a tall blue box begins to take shape before her eyes.

When she finally makes her slow, painful way outside he is there waiting for her — her impossible man and his impossible machine. He leans jauntily against the side of the box, arms crossed; the door, she cannot help noticing, hangs tantalizingly open. His face lights up when he sees her (and blessedly betrays no dismay at her prematurely aged appearance).

"Miss Austen!" he calls merrily, pushing himself upright and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Dr. Smith," she replies.

"Told you that's not my name."

"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "Everyone should have a proper name in civilized society."

He grins, and now that she's drawn closer she can see that he has not aged a day from her memories of him. In fact, she's almost certain he is still wearing the same clothes.

"You came back," she says.

He cocks his head to the side — as if even he is surprised by this fact — and plunges his hands into his pockets. "I did, didn't I?"

A magpie calls from the bare branches of nearby birch and it occurs to Jane that she has left the house without her coat. She ought be cold, out here in the chill February air, but she's not. Quite the contrary, in fact.

"I was thinking," he says. "About that trip we talked about. Still fancy a go?"

A dull ache blooms in her chest, a pain that has plagued her repeatedly through the years, and has nothing at all to do with her recent illness. The hand that isn't clutching her cane moves once more to the cross at her throat.

"Just a quick one, mind. Have you back home safe and sound before the others notice you're gone. Still, should give us plenty of time to catch that falling star."

"Oh, yes," she says. "Yes, please."

He offers his arm and she takes it gratefully, allowing him to escort her back into his little blue box that isn't so little as it appears. And for this one bright shining moment, all the wide wonders of the universe are spread out within her frail grasp.

 

~ **THE END** ~**  
**

 


End file.
